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Ever get the feeling your life is slipping slowly out of your hands? I’ve been feeling that way pretty much all the time recently. Since January. It always leaves eventually, whether through a boyfriend or more medication or both. Although previous times were far longer than this bout, but with every phase I slip into, it wears down just a little bit deeper and deeper and I hope soon there won’t be anything left.

A good friend of mine described this as ‘everything just goes grey’. I couldn’t agree more. The orange wall in front of me isn’t filled with all the usual bright, happy and hopeful associations. It’s just orange.

I’m spending more time by myself. I don’t want to see anyone anymore.

A big part of me absolutely loves this constant pressure on my chest and lack of breath in my throat. It utterly thrives on it. Misery has a thick, syrupy texture and it sticks just as easily. Like warm, thick milk in a way – but not warm in the usual context. I’m talking about unclear, hazy, compacting and submerging warmth.

Misery is MY world and mine alone. I don’t want to share it with anyone and it gives me a damn good excuse to push people away, as violently as I want. Then just as soon I cannot be without one or other person.
I know when I am going down because I spend 90% of my time in my head and 10% processing normal everyday functions when a normal person would have it the other way around. In my head is the life I want though. The person I want to be lives in there and I love watching her, experiencing her every day interactions with her, knowing that if I really put my mind to it, I will become her. And living in that world, driving around in her car with her, seeing my friends and family interact with her, that is enough for me to be alright. Because she is me. A different me, a much much better me, but still me.

That is the only place that I have a motivation to be present in. Not this orange wall I am staring at. Because as I said already, the things around me right now are slipping quickly away from me and I can’t seem to stop it.

And no, I am not some skull wearing, emo retard fuckwit who thinks it is fashionable to be depressed. Emo’s can all go and set themselves on fucking fire. Once they have been locked up on a psyche ward over and over for weeks at a fucking time, fed pills like smarties and then they can come and talk to me. And cutting themselves? What the fuck – I doubt one of those striped legging wearing cunts has ever really enjoyed doing it. They just do it to show their friends. I doubt they have ever had the pleasure of experiencing the total nothingness it gives you just when you need it most. Seriously – they are taking advantage of something that is not funny, not pleasant and not for kiddies, and for what? To look good? Fucking retards.